The Make-Believe Widow, page 3
“Thank you. I appreciate the support.” He studied her a moment, unable to discern if she might be interested in that. There was no indication that she was.
There was also no indication that she wasn’t.
One of the younger fellows in attendance, Mr. Jacob Emerson, came toward them. Roth suspected his time with Mrs. Dunthorpe was about to come to an end. At least for tonight.
“I think I’m about to lose you,” he murmured.
She arched her brow in question but wasn’t able to ask anything—if she’d wanted to—because Emerson arrived. He glanced toward Roth and inclined his head before turning his full attention to Mrs. Dunthorpe.
“I couldn’t help but take notice of your grace on the dance floor, Mrs. Dunthorpe. I hoped you might allow me to partner you in the next dance.” Emerson’s expression was earnest if slightly nervous. He appeared to be the youngest gentleman in attendance. Roth estimated he was twenty-five. Surely Mrs. Dunthorpe needed a man of more…maturity.
Roth reminded himself that Emerson was asking her to dance, not proposing marriage. He also reminded himself that he was putting the proverbial cart before the horse.
The truth struck him like a slap to the face: he was jealous. Though he’d just met Mrs. Dunthorpe that very afternoon, he wanted to have her entirely to himself.
“I would be most obliged, Mr. Emerson,” she said. Then she turned her head to Roth and gave him a dazzling smile that soothed his baser emotions. “Thank you for the delightful conversation.”
“Thank you.” He took her hand and lightly pressed his lips to her knuckles. Though he longed to linger there, he released her. “I look forward to our next encounter.”
And he prayed it would not be too long in coming.
Chapter 3
The final performance of the talent display the following day, Lord Cosford strumming a guitar, finished to a rousing round of applause. Lady Cosford had recruited her guests to share a skill, and those who’d dared to participate had taken their turn atop the dais in the ballroom. Charlotte had declined to perform, as she’d had no idea what to do.
The talents had ranged from reciting Shakespeare or poetry to singing to Mr. Emerson attempting—and rather failing—to juggle apples. Charlotte noted that Roth hadn’t taken part either. He’d sat in the row behind her, not close enough to exchange pleasantries, unfortunately.
Hopefully, they would have a chance to speak now that the show had concluded. She kept thinking of their conversation last night. His love for his daughters and interest in helping the poor were particularly endearing. He was not only ridiculously handsome and charming; he possessed integrity and an irresistible love for his family.
He’d also seemed slightly perturbed by Emerson’s interruption. The earl’s eyes had narrowed for a fleeting moment. Perhaps Charlotte had imagined it. Or, perhaps she’d correctly ascertained Roth’s instant passion for her. Or, most likely, she’d completely fabricated his reaction so that she would not feel silly in nursing her own sudden and inexplicable yearning for him.
Now, in the light of the following day, she realized how nonsensical all that was. At thirty, she was simply coming to terms with being alone and the near certainty that she always would be.
“There are refreshments at the back of the ballroom,” Lady Cosford announced.
Eager to speak with Roth, Charlotte stood. However, before she could make her way toward the earl, Emerson, who’d also risen, turned to her. “Did I embarrass myself horribly with the juggling?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “You were most diverting.”
“I was able to juggle years ago at Cambridge. I suppose I should have practiced last night.” He chuckled. “Would you care for a glass of wine or ratafia?” He inclined his head toward where the refreshments were spread across a table. A footman stood sentinel at each end.
Charlotte moved her gaze toward where Roth had been sitting, but he wasn’t there. She scanned the room and saw him standing away from the seating area. He was turning away and began walking to the door.
No, he couldn’t leave!
Nor was she going to run after him and provoke raised eyebrows or worse, gossip. “A glass of ratafia would not come amiss,” she said with a forced smile.
She took Emerson’s arm as he guided her to the refreshment table. The footman served their drinks, and Charlotte spent the next quarter hour listening to Emerson regale her with how he started juggling and his intent to hone his skill once more. As soon as they were joined by other guests, she excused herself and made her way sedately from the ballroom.
Where had Roth gone? She’d seen other gentlemen leave and assumed they’d gone to the billiards room. That seemed to be where the men congregated.
Consequently, she saw no point in going there. Accepting defeat, she went to the Landscape Room, a small chamber located near the library where there were purportedly several landscape paintings, including one by Charlotte’s favorite painter, Richard Wilson.
Favorite? In truth, he was the one famous landscape painter whose work she’d seen. An older lady in Birmingham with whom she was friends owned one of his paintings, a ruined castle next to a lake. Charlotte found it provocative and even a little haunting. She was curious to see what this one was like and if it would evoke the same sensations.
Charlotte stepped into the Landscape Room and abruptly stopped. Standing at the opposite side, surveying a painting, was Roth. At least, she was fairly certain it was the earl. She hadn’t committed his appearance from the rear to memory. The hair was definitely the same wheaten color, and the breadth of his shoulders and tapered waist supported his identity.
Perhaps it was wrong of her to stand there and stare at him, but she found she couldn’t speak. She’d hoped to see him. Longed to spend more time with him. And here he was. Alone.
He moved from the back wall to the right side, his attention shifting to the next painting on display. His head turned slightly toward her, then snapped fully in her direction. “Mrs. Dunthorpe?”
“I came to view the Wilson.”
“It’s lovely. Come see.” He gestured for her to join him as he pivoted and walked to the center of the opposite wall. “Are you an admirer of Wilson?”
“I, ah, like the one I’ve seen.” She slid him a slightly disconcerted look. He was so worldly, particularly when compared with her.
“I do appreciate his landscapes. I especially like the light in this one.”
Charlotte looked at the painting and tried to ignore the gentleman standing beside her. Except, there was no hope of that. What she needed to do was ignore the way his proximity made her feel. Warm and heavy. Anxious.
Breathless.
Blinking, she took a stuttered breath and perused the landscape. The sun was setting on the right of the canvas, casting a warm glow over the rest of the painting, which Charlotte imagined she could feel. No, that was the heat of Roth’s arm grazing hers.
“The sky looks incredibly real.” There were wispy clouds amidst the pale blue and gold. A river meandered through the center, reflecting the dusky light.
“It reminds me of a warm summer evening when I was young,” Roth said softly. “My father took me and my younger brother to the River Don. Papa taught us how to skip rocks. Then we stripped down to just our breeches—even Papa—and splashed about until it was nearly dark.”
Charlotte smiled as she turned her head toward him. “How old were you?”
Roth also turned his head, and their faces were so very close. “Eight. My brother, Simon, was six.”
“Sounds like a wonderful memory. I’ve a similar one with my father, but it was a brook, not a river. We went every Sunday after church. Well, on the Sundays that he attended. He wasn’t able to go every week, but he made sure I was there.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I rather had to since the vicar gave me lessons on everything from geography to history to rudimentary Latin.”
Roth’s eyes widened slightly. “You speak Latin?”
“Goodness, no. I can read it—passably. I did manage to speak some French, but I’m out of practice. Once in a while, I converse with a friend.” The lady who owned the Wilson landscape, in fact.
“You astonish me, Mrs. Dunthorpe.” He spoke in a satiny tone, shimmering with admiration.
Charlotte jerked her focus back to the painting lest she become completely lost in the fathomless depths of Roth’s glittering green eyes. “You came to see the Wilson too?”
“Actually, I came to see a landscape by Cosford’s cousin. He said it was mediocre, but he’d felt beholden to display it somewhere. Then he sniggered and said the painting was most…conversational. I took that to mean there was something unique about it.”
“And is there?”
“I haven’t found it yet. Cosford said it centered on a folly at his father’s estate—he’s the Duke of Ironbridge. In any case, I’ve only encountered one painting with a folly and it was off in the background, so I don’t think that’s it. Besides, it was also better than mediocre, at least in my opinion, although there wasn’t anything particularly conversational about it.”
“That’s the beauty of art, though,” Charlotte said, glancing about the room at the two dozen or so landscapes adorning the space. “What is mediocre to Lord Cosford may be exemplary to you.”
“And utter rubbish to you.” Roth laughed. “I jest. Somehow, I think you would find something to praise about anything or anyone.”
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “I suppose you seem particularly kindhearted. Generous. Or perhaps I’m merely smitten by your charm.” He fluttered his lashes at her as if he were a coquette.
Charlotte snorted and immediately wished she could take it back. Her hand flew to her face, as if she could push the sound back in. “Pardon me,” she murmured.
Grinning, Roth shook his head. “I will not. That snort was also charming.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but it’s not something I typically do around…others.” She’d been about to say attractive gentlemen, but decided they were already too close and their conversation too intimate.
Intimate?
Because she felt comfortable with him. At ease enough to snort, apparently.
“We are looking for a landscape with a prominently placed folly, then?” she asked, thinking it best to divert the conversation from themselves.
He arched a blond brow. “Are we? I should appreciate the company. It doesn’t appear to be on this wall or the back, and I was just in the middle of surveying that one.” He gestured across the room where he’d pivoted after she’d surreptitiously watched him.
Spied on him was perhaps a better description.
No, she wasn’t spying. She’d been…appreciating. As if he were a painting.
Charlotte grimaced inwardly.
“You’re welcome to review the walls I already looked over. In fact, you should, as there are several lovely landscapes.”
“I think I’m committed to finding the conversational folly, but once we’ve located it, I may take a turn about the room.”
“Very well. Shall we continue?” He turned, and she followed him to the other wall.
“You left the talent show rather quickly,” Charlotte said, going right back to discussing what she’d just abandoned: them. More specifically, him.
They’d stopped in front of a landscape with horses grazing in a wide field, a large oak standing sentinel to one side. She looked over at Roth’s profile, which showed the strong jut of his chin and the impossibly long curl of his eyelashes. “Was it not to your liking?”
“I will say that it was diverting—some of the performances more than others.”
“Why didn’t you perform?”
He sent her a coy glance. “Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t like being the center of attention in a large group. It was hard enough when I had to share something during last night’s introductions.” At Cecilia’s instruction, they’d gathered in a large circle and taken turns telling everyone something about themselves. She’d said that she liked the quiet of late night and early morning.
As soon as the words had left her mouth, she’d realized that saying so could have been interpreted as a subtle invitation to seek her company at those hours. If it had been a regular house party, she wouldn’t have thought so, but this was a matchmaking party to join people as spouses or lovers. Thankfully, no one had come to her door in the middle of the night.
Regrettably, that meant Roth hadn’t either.
“I’m confident you would have acquitted yourself most admirably. You couldn’t have done worse than Emerson with his juggling.” He smiled. “I do believe he was trying to be amusing.”
“I believe so. He hadn’t practiced and thought he would have better recalled the skill from his days at Cambridge. He told me that’s where he learned. Lacking skill, why not strive for laughter instead?”
“He certainly accomplished that.” Roth pivoted slightly toward her. “Is that what you and he were discussing after the performances?”
He’d seen her speaking with Emerson? And did his tone venture a bit further than simple curiosity?
“Yes,” she replied. “He told me all about his juggling experience. He plans to hone his skill once more.”
“Then he’ll be prepared for the next time he’s called upon to display a talent. That is why I didn’t participate. I had nothing to demonstrate.” He cocked his head. “Clearly, this is not the painting we are looking for.” He moved to the next one, and she joined him in front of the landscape featuring a waterfall.
“I do like this one,” she said. The water in the painting seemed to move, as if it were truly cascading. “You could have danced. You’re quite good at that.”
He turned toward her, chuckling. “And how would I have done that by myself? Unless… you could have partnered me. Then we both would have participated.”
She faced him, enjoying herself more than she had in ages. “And what dance would we have demonstrated with just the two of us?”
His nose wrinkled and his forehead creased as he considered her question. Finally, he suggested, “The minuet?”
“I don’t know the steps, so perhaps not.”
“I could have taught you. Or, there is a dance in Austria that’s quite popular. It’s called the waltz and is danced by two people. There is touching and a rather close proximity for the entirety of the dance.” His gaze, entangled with hers, was unwavering. “Very scandalous.”
The air around them heated, and Charlotte fought not to take a step toward him. They were only two paces apart. She could be in his arms in less than a breath…
“Do you know how it goes?”
“Not specifically.” His brows leapt and his eyes gleamed. “I know—we could have created our own dance. I fear we’ve missed an opportunity here, Mrs. Dunthorpe.”
How she longed for him to call her Charlotte! “Have we? I see an empty room with a paucity of furniture. Surely, we could come up with our dance here.”
“To what end?” he asked with a slight but very mischievous grin.
She lifted a shoulder. “Do we need a reason? On occasion, I find it’s pleasant to do something simply because it sounds…fun.”
“I can’t argue with that. How should our dance look? Should it be triple time? Double?”
Charlotte put a hand to her cheek. “You’ve quite lost me now. I’ve no idea.”
“Perhaps we should start with the minuet and adapt our dance from there.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know how.”
“Then it’s good that my grandmother taught me, and I can now teach you. It’s six steps forward and six back. Watch my feet.” He moved farther away from the wall and demonstrated the steps.
“They’re somewhat halting.”
“That’s a good way to describe it.” He clasped her hand, surprising her. She didn’t quite gasp, but she inhaled swiftly. His gaze shot briefly to hers. He’d heard it. His thumb moved gently over her fingers. “Ready to try?”
“No, but we’re making this up, aren’t we? I don’t like halting steps. I would rather do something more animated.”
He released her hand, and she kept herself from frowning. “Show me.”
Charlotte made little skipping steps and added a hop, then a turn. “More like that.”
Now Roth snorted. “My apologies, but that looks far too athletic. I thought we were aiming for something more sedate, more…intimate.”
She met his gaze with a taunting stare. “Sedate sounds boring.”
“Mmm, it does.” He looked at her intently. “And intimate? How does that sound?”
A delightful shiver raced across her shoulders. “Scandalous, like your waltz.”
“It isn’t my waltz.” He tapped his finger against his jaw. “I believe there is twirling.”
“You also mentioned touching. Should we hold hands again?”
He nodded in faux solemnity. “I think we must if we’re to do our dance justice.”
She held out her hand, and he took it, his fingers warm against hers. “If we’re to be scandalous, I feel as though I should touch you with my other hand as well.”
He quickly clasped that appendage. “Yes, I believe this feels right. Shall we twirl?”
Moving them in a slow circle, she clasped his hands more tightly. “It can be just this? Surely we ought to progress somewhere?”
“We can twirl as if we are in a line such as in a longways formation?” He guided her to the other end of the room, but as they started back, she lost her balance and had to grip him more tightly.
She giggled. “I’m quite dizzy. Too much twirling.”
“I must agree. I feel as though I’ve drunk too much port.”
“Oh, I did that once. It was dreadful. I thought the entire house was spinning around me.”
He looked into her eyes. “I hope this isn’t dreadful.”
“Far from it,” she said softly. “I do think the dance would benefit from being closer together. That way, if the twirling makes one dizzy, one is in close proximity to one’s partner, who may rescue one from certain doom.”
